


Just Kiss Me

by Unavis



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Frottage, M/M, Near Kisses, Not Underage, Pining, Post-Canon, Romance, Slow Burn, Teasing, mild dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:34:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22792573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unavis/pseuds/Unavis
Summary: Five times Peter and Tony almost kissed and one time they did.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 18
Kudos: 246





	Just Kiss Me

Peter won’t forget the first time. A cold breeze across his skin is enough to throw his mind back to that dingy, dark alley.

The chill in the air bites at Peter’s face. He’s wearing his suit underneath the black hoodie and sweatpants, but his hands are free, fingertips numb. The mask is tucked safely in his pocket and the rest of the team is chattering in his ear.

He’s the only one whose identity is unknown to the world, so they’d sent him in undercover for surveillance. It's a huge risk, laying his face out in the open in view of a group of dangerous criminals, but of course, he took it. 

_“They’re on their way, ETA five minutes, Peter. Stay sharp,”_ Natasha’s voice echoes down the earpiece. He nods, eyes darting up to where a silent drone is hovering nearby, sending back footage to the rest of the team. 

He only has to look in the back of the truck they're bringing, check for any signs of alien technology. Purchase a weapon, alien or not, and send them on their way. Depending on what the result is, they'll either be pulled over by the police or Steve and Bucky. Simple.

“Nice night to be a criminal,” A familiar voice says from next to him. 

Peter jerks his head up in surprise, annoyed at himself for being so focused on his own thoughts he hadn’t noticed being approached.

It’s a man in a similar hoodie to his, dark glasses perched on his nose and a scarf pulled up around his nose. Even with the disguise, Peter knows who it is.

“Mr Stark?” He feels a burst of irritation run up his spine when the mystery man gives him a little wave, confirming his suspicions. “What the hell are you doing here?” He grits out through his teeth.

 _“Is that Tony? Oh for f–”_ Natasha’s voice cuts off.

“Told you, wasn’t going to let you do this alone, kid. No one goes on their first op without backup.”

“I don’t need backup!” He hisses back, struggling to keep his voice down. Of course, not everyone on the team had been happy with the decision to send a nineteen-year-old into the field by himself. 

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Mr Stark points a finger at him. “And Steve should know better, sending you in alone.” He says, voice risen slightly so the earpiece could pick it up.

_“Peter, it’s only going to be two guys. I didn’t think–”_

“It’s okay, Cap, I know,” Peter replies, inclining his body away from Tony’s in a huff. He knew he could handle it and it was frustrating that Mr Stark didn’t seem to think he could.

A pair of headlights glint across the corner of the alley, the sound of tyres crunching across tarmac assaulting Peter’s ears. He swallows, nerves tingling across his body, and despite his irritation at Mr Stark’s insistent participation, he’s a little glad he’s there.

“Game time,” Mr Stark says, readjusting the scarf on his nose. Peter watches the headlights to the van shift in the distance as it pulls to the side. His stomach drops. There’s another set of headlights behind it. When they move away, there’s another. 

“Oh no,” He whispers to himself. Mr Stark hums in agreement. 

Multiple figures start emerging from the vans, a couple of them with weapons around their waists. They’re twenty feet from where Peter and Tony are standing, but they haven’t been spotted yet. It won’t be long before they are.

 _“Are you compromised?”_ Steve’s voice worriedly asks through the earpiece. Peter feels the lump in throat grow. There’s about ten guys huddled around the entrance to the alleyway they’re in and if either Tony or Peter move out of the shadow they’re currently hidden in, they’ll be spotted. There’s no knowing what kind of weapons they have on them, whether he can withstand a shot, or if Mr Stark can get his armor on in time.

“We’re compromised,” Peter croaks. The guys start to make their way down the alleyway, eyes searching up and down, hands at the guns on their waist. His mind runs a million miles a second, trying to think of a way out, trying to work out if he can pull his mask on and web Mr Stark away before they can put a bullet in him.

“Told you you’d need backup,” Mr Stark’s voice says from next to him, and then his freezing cheeks are encased in rough hands, his head is being tilted upwards and a warm body pushes against his.

A calloused thumb presses into his lips and then Mr Stark’s nose is brushing his. Peter’s eyes are wide, heart thumping, hands hanging limply at his sides. He can’t see anything but the glasses on Mr Stark’s face and when he strains his eyes to look down between them, he can see the thumb on his mouth and Mr Stark’s lips pressed against it.

The cold chill that had been sending pinpricks across his body disappears, replaced by a stream of heat, because there was only a _thumb_ between his and Mr Stark’s lips and that shouldn’t be giving him the reaction it is. Shouldn’t send a delicious shiver down his spine when Mr Stark shifts the thumb a little to the left, brushing that rough skin across Peter’s bottom lip.

“Just some couple makin’ out, they ain’t here, boss. Must have known we were onto ‘em.” A voice shouts from _too close_. The footsteps retreat, engines start rolling and then fade into the distance.

Mr Stark finally, finally, steps back, taking the thumb off of Peter’s lips and the warmth along with it. The chill of the night envelops Peter again and he can’t move, his legs glued in place, his lips still burning.

“All good here, Rogers.” Peter doesn’t know if it’s the strange situation he’d just had to put himself in, or if Mr Stark is still pumped full of adrenaline like Peter, but his voice sounds strained. 

His dark glasses hide the expression on his face and he stands there, looking at Peter, and it feels like the longest minute of his life. Then he turns around and walks away, leaving Peter in the dark, cold alley, the icy wall pressing into his back feeling like it’s the only thing supporting him.

-x-

If things had gone okay that night, if everything had gone as planned, Peter thinks things would have turned out very, very differently.

That night seems to amplify Mr Stark’s need to tag along on every mission Peter has. It’s nice, of course it is. He has Iron Man following him around like a protective guard dog and it’s flattering, but he doesn’t need it. He doesn’t need Tony to push him out of the way of an incoming punch when he was already prepared to dive out of the way. He doesn’t need Tony to take a blast to his chest when Peter had his wrist up, ready to shoot a web into the mechanism of the weapon and prevent it from firing. He didn’t need Tony to walk around for a week with a black eye when Peter had already told him to fall back, that his helmet was busted, and to retreat. 

After another successful mission, the team gathers in the Avengers Tower, beaten and bruised but happy. Steve, Natasha and Clint spread themselves out on the couch, leaving Peter and Tony to take the two-seater opposite them. Beers and whiskey are passed around and even Peter takes one, relishing in their recent victory.

“Good job, team,” Steve says, holding up his can. Natasha, Clint, Tony and Peter follows suit, holding up their drinks before taking a sip. Mr Stark’s bandaged hand catches Peter’s eye and he clenches his teeth, casting him an irritated glare which goes unnoticed.

Today, Tony had decided to capture a fist in his hand that was aiming for Peter. His gauntlet had malfunctioned and locked up around his hand, spraining it. Another pointless injury.

Steve and Clint fall into conversation about the recent battle, with Natasha next to them, tapping away on her phone. Peter watches Tony’s bandaged hand wrap around the phone in his pocket and can’t hold back the heat of anger that spreads up his spine. How much longer was he going to put himself in harms way for Peter? How far was he willing to go? 

Peter chugs back the rest of his can and stretches forwards to get himself another one. A hand snaps out, halting him, and picks the can up instead. He watches Tony open the can for him, then he hands it over, a smirk on his face. 

And that’s what does it. Because yeah, it could have been a kind gesture, but it’s just another thing being done for him. And for what? Save his precious fingernails? He wants to be thankful, wants to appreciate how worried Mr Stark is for him, but he also wants to be independent. He wants to be treated like Steve or Natasha - like he’s capable.

Peter grabs the can a bit too harshly out of Tony’s hand and stands up, storming out of the room. The others don’t notice him walking away, their conversation continuing uninterrupted.

He heads where he knows he’ll calm down - the roof.

He pulls the door open and stands for a second, the cold air a relief on his face. He breathes it in, the ache in his shoulders easing. This was what he needed. Some time to be himself, to think, to–

“Kid, you go out there in those shorts, your legs will freeze and fall off. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Peter closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Because _of course_ Mr Stark followed him. Of course he was standing behind him now, worried about him catching a cold.

He chugs back the rest of the can and throws it onto the floor before flipping around, settling Mr Stark with a stare.

“I know what I’m doing,” It comes out low and gritty and the tone isn’t lost on Mr Stark. He frowns at Peter, stepping up the last step on the staircase. 

“You okay?” He asks and it’s enough to make Peter feel a little guilty about snapping at him, but then his eyes fall to the bandage wrapped around Tony’s hand and the anger’s back.

“No, no I’m not, Mr Stark.” He closes the door to the roof behind him, the corridor warmer and almost suffocating. He moves closer to Tony, who watches him warily.

“Anything I can do?” 

“Yeah, actually,” Peter’s almost toe-to-toe with him now, able to see every stray hair on his face, every freckle. He stretches his hand over to Tony’s bandaged one on the railing and squeezes. Tony flinches and tries to pull his hand away, but Peter holds tight, jaw clenched, gaze unwavering on Tony’s. “I need you to stop.”

He watches Tony’s throat bob when he swallows, feels the hand under his relax into his grip. 

“Gotta be a little clearer,” Mr Stark replies, and his voice has lost its energy, dropping to a whisper. Peter bites his lip, trying to restrain himself from bursting into a hormone-fueled rant, and he watches Mr Stark’s eyes follow the movement.

He ignores the shock it sends to his gut.

“I need you to stop trying to save me,” Peter croaks out, “Stop hurting yourself for me. I’m Spiderman, remember?”

Tony looks surprised and once again tries to extract himself from Peter’s grip. Frustrated, he grabs Tony’s good hand and yanks him over to the wall, where he crowds himself in front of him. 

“Pete–”

“No. You don’t do it for Captain Rogers, you don’t do it for Natasha. It’s only me. And I know it’s because I’m a ‘ _kid_ ’,” He grits the last word through his teeth, “But I’m not your responsibility.”

Mr Stark looks… worried. Like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t be - which was ridiculous. Peter’s eyes roam over his face, falling to his lips, then to this throat, to where he can see his pulse hammering against his skin.

“It’s not because…” Mr Stark trails off, voice barely above a whisper. Peter watches his mouth move around the words, transfixed. “Jesus, kid, will you stop looking at me like that?” 

Peter’s eyes dart up to Tony’s, confused, cheeks warm and brain fuzzy. He was angry wasn’t he? Wasn’t he shouting at Mr Stark for something? But he can’t feel anything except the warmth of the body in front of him, the stillness of the room around them, can only hear their stuttered breaths. 

“Like what?” Peter whispers, stepping closer, hands sliding from Mr Stark’s upper arms down to his wrists, thumb brushing over the soft skin there. Mr Stark hitches a breath in front of him and Peter’s senses are in overdrive, able to see every little reaction. 

He wants to do more. He wants to see what he can do to make Mr Stark flutter his eyes like that again. So he moves his face closer, brushes his nose against his, and digs his fingernails into the soft patch of Mr Stark’s wrist. 

Tony’s throat makes a sound, his fingers wrap tightly around Peter’s to stop him or pull him closer, he doesn’t know, Peter just wants to taste that noise so he presses his forehead to Mr Stark’s, lips aching and so _so_ close–

“You guys up there?” Clint’s voice is a shock to his system and Peter wrenches himself away from Tony, their gaze on each other holding fast. He’s breathless and so is Mr Stark, who’s looking at him like he’s grown a second head. Peter freaks out, because _what the hell was that_ , he’d been so angry, then he’d just _ached_.

Peter takes a deep breath and squashes his thoughts down, closes his eyes. Then he tears his gaze away from Mr Stark’s and walks past him, elbow brushing his arm.

He joins Clint at the base of the staircase, mumbles something about Tony, and they leave the corridor, Peter trying his best to stop his hands from trembling.

Tony doesn’t show up for the rest of the night.

-x-

The days that follow carry on like nothing happened.

Peter doesn’t know whether to be thankful or glad that whatever had happened in that corridor had been pushed aside, like it was some kind of weird fever dream. Mr Stark treats him just like he always has, minus the Peter-Parker-Shield act he’d had going on, for which Peter is thankful. They go back to bantering, huddled over projects in the lab together until Steve comes down and tells them to go to bed, eat, and for god sake, shower you two. 

It’s not all the same, though. Mr Stark has always been touchy-feely with everyone, back slaps and arms around shoulders. But now, his fingers dig into Peter’s shoulder and it makes his stomach throb or he’ll tangle his hand into Peter’s hair while he’s working and his fingernails will scratch his scalp lightly when he pulls away and it’ll send a numbing shock down his spine.

It’s driving Peter crazy, because it’s harmless touches here and there, and they’re setting his nerves alight. 

He smacks his cheeks, willing down the redness. He looks at himself in the mirror, brushing a hand down his silver suit and tussling his hair. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to attending these big charity events with the Avengers. 

Tonight was a ball, raising money for the people left homeless after the battle of New York. It was years ago and still, people were suffering from it. Peter remembered him and his aunt being relieved that their apartment had been practically untouched, minus a few cracked windows. The apartment block opposite was not so lucky.

With a final nod to his reflection, he leaves his room, the lights turning off as he closes the door behind him. He’d been living in the Avengers tower for a few years now. He smiles as he passes Steve’s room, which was next to his. He didn’t think he’d ever get over sharing a living space with Captain America.

The party is already in full swing by the time he makes it down to the hall, people dressed head-to-toe in sparkling gowns and smooth suits. He swallows down the lump in his throat, palms starting to sweat. He was usually okay in crowds, but when it’s all of these important figures, when his identity had only been out for a week, nerves overtook pretty fast.

“Peter Parker!” A voice booms over the music. He looks over to the voice and sees Thor by the bar, dressed in a slate suit. It always shook Peter to see a god walking around in human clothes but damn, did he make them look good.

“Thor!” He grins and heads over to him, grateful for the familiar face. Thor pulls him into a big hug, squeezing him tightly. Then he releases him and pushes over a tankard that was on the bar in front of him.

“Liquid courage for the young one,” Thor says, grinning. His eyes are a little unfocused - he’d obviously been drinking for a while. 

“I’d be careful with that,” Another voice says from his right. Peter turns and sees Loki, dressed in a similar suit to Thor. He hadn’t even realised he was there. “That’s not exactly suitable for midgardians.” 

Peter swallows, looking down at the golden liquid in the tankard. Shrugging, he picks it up and takes a sip, almost letting out a moan. It tastes like mint, it’s warm and smokey, and it leaves a little fizz on the back of his tongue.

“Oh my god,” Peter says, looking down at his drink. His mouth waters, begging for more. Loki presses a hand onto Peter’s shoulder and guides him onto the bar stool between him and Thor.

“It’s Aphrosia. It’s supposed to smell like what you heart desires most,” Loki smirks at him, inclining his head towards the mug. “Go on.”

Peter dips his nose towards the rim and inhales. It smells metallic, with hints of plain soap and whiskey. It should be an off-putting scent for a drink to have, but it just makes him want more. So he tips the liquid into his mouth, his nerves dissolving with every gulp, ignoring the small droplet of liquid that slips out of the corner and down his throat.

“Woah, woah, slow down, Spider boy,” Thor lurches forwards and pulls the mug away from his mouth. “Don’t wanna get me in trouble.” 

Peter licks his lips and laughs, cupping the mug in his hands. He feels pleasant now. Buzzing, numb, happy. He stares at the bar in front of him, thumb brushing along the rim of the mug where his lips had been. He notices Loki shift next to him and looks up, seeing the discomfort on his face.

“You okay?” Peter asks, edging closer to him. Loki casts him a conflicted look, one that tells him he isn’t sure whether to talk. He sighs.

“I’m at a ball designed to help the victims of my actions. It’s… unsettling.” He gazes around at everyone in the room, shoulders tense. Peter takes another few mouthfuls of the drink in front of him, resisting the urge to make pleased noises, and he can feel his head becoming lighter, the room around him unfocused in a pleasant way.

“Hey, you’re here, you’re trying. That counts for something,” Peter rests a hand on Loki’s knee and when he gains a tiny smile in return, he feels his heart swell with happiness. 

“I suppose so, Parker.”

“Enough of this!” Thor shouts over them, pushing his way between the two. He slides a tray over with a series of shot glasses placed on top of it, each one filled with a different bright-coloured liquid. He waves at them. “Let the games begin.” 

Peter stares down at the shots, having an inward battle about what he should do. He could be responsible Peter Parker and decline, go and make the rounds and discuss important matters with the upper-class people. Or he could sit here, have fun with his teammates, and let himself go for a while.

He decides not to be the good guy, for once, and lets himself spend time with the Odinsons. Something he’ll hate himself for later.

Each shot contains a liquid that makes you feel and do things. He laughs so hard he cries when Thor gets one that makes him giggle uncontrollably, swears he can’t breathe when Loki gets one that makes him want to sing. Peter picks one that makes him act like a puppy, crawling around the floor on all-fours and Thor and Loki have tears in their eyes, trying to get Peter to stand up, judging gazes starting to watch the ruckus going on at the bar.

They drink the shots between chatting, being much louder than a fancy ball usually called for. Thor takes another shot, which makes him start half-lap dancing on Peter and Peter pushes him, laughing hysterically. The people closest to them start to move away, eyeing them up disapprovingly.

“Okay, I’ve been called over to mediate, which I told Pepper was a terrible idea, because I am not one to shut down a party. But we are getting some complaints.” Peter raises his misty gaze up to the person in front of them. It’s Tony, looking just as incredible as he always did in a perfectly-tailored, thinly checkered navy suit. 

“Mr Stark! Join us!” Peter shouts, much louder than he intended to, and pushes a shot into his hand. Tony looks down at the liquid and shakes his head, leaning forwards to place it back on the bar. Peter catches his hand before he can and holds Mr Stark’s hand in his, tipping his head back and pouring the dark red substance into his mouth. When he brings his head back down to meet Tony’s gaze, his hand is frozen in place, gaze hyper-focused on Peter’s mouth.

“Muscles, how much has he had?” 

Thor just shrugs and goes back to talking to Loki, who’s swirling round his drink with a finger that isn’t even touching the liquid. Peter wraps his hand around the tankard on the bar, ready to tip back the rest of the delicious alcohol that he’d had before the shots, when Mr Stark’s body practically covers his, his hand pressing into Peter’s.

“I think that’s enough,” He says sternly, looking back and forth between Peter’s eyes, a firm look in his gaze. Peter lets out a sigh, because really? The breath he lets out sends a wave of dizziness through him and he presses a hand to his head to steady himself. Maybe that last shot was a bad idea.

Nothing had happened yet, and it was confusing, because all of the other’s side effects had been practically instant. He can feel himself being pulled to his feet, off of the stool, but he’s too busy trying to keep the spinning room around him steady. The noise of chatting and music fades out and it’s jarring, so much so that Peter snaps into proper consciousness, realising he’s been pulled from the hall. Mr Stark has wrapped an arm around his shoulders and wow he has a hand on Peter’s hip, tight and firm.

And that’s when the effects of the shot hit.

It sends _fire_ through Peter’s body, every inch of his skin alight, every point of contact with Mr Stark burning. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s pulling away and grabbing the lapels of Mr Stark’s suit jacket in his hands and pushing him against the wall.

“Peter–”

Peter presses himself to Mr Stark, belt-to-belt, and dives in, pressing his nose to Mr Stark’s throat. He lets out a quiet moan, but it’s loud enough for Mr Stark to hear, because he stiffens.

“Smell so good,” Peter mutters into his neck, letting his lips brush the sensitive skin there. 

“Kid, Peter, I think–” Tony starts to protest and puts his hands on Peter’s shoulders to push him away. Peter grabs them and pins them against the wall, pressing back into Tony, their chest’s colliding with each other. Peter can’t help it, he needs to taste the warm skin that’s brushing against his lips, so he places his mouth over Mr Stark’s pulse point and sucks, licks, _bites_ –

“Fuck, stop, stop, that’s…” Despite the protests, Tony’s body goes limp against his and Peter can feel the growl in his throat through his lips. He places a soothing kiss to the blooming bruise on Tony’s neck and that’s what seems to make Mr Stark snap, because he flips them over, pushing Peter against the wall instead.

He locks him in place with a hand to each shoulder, purposefully angling their bodies as far away from each other as he can. And _fuck_ that look in Mr Stark’s eyes, his hair tousled, mouth hanging open and panting, the bruise on his neck bright against his tan skin.

“Stay right here. I’m getting Cap.” And then the hands that had been pushed against his shoulders are gone, and with it, Peter’s sense of balance. He slides down the wall onto the floor, watches Tony’s retreating back dazedly, a small smile dancing around his lips. 

And then he passes out.

-x-

Peter knows he’s not exactly the ’smoothest’ person in the world. He trips on his own feet regularly, narrowly misses walking into doors, spills whatever he’s drinking down him - and that was after he’d become Spiderman.

This led to many, many embarrassing situations. Falling into people, stepping on his laces in front of his crush, smashing multiple beakers in his college class, resulting in a roll of eyes and a sigh from his lecturer. He’d learnt to embrace the red cheeks and hot tingling on the back of his neck.

But whenever he thinks about what had happened a few weeks back, he almost chokes with the humiliation of it. Luckily, no one else on the team knew about it - Mr Stark had kept the fact Peter had practically thrown himself at him blissfully quiet.

That didn’t mean that the memory didn’t shove its way into Peter’s brain regularly. Mr Stark’s hot skin on his lips, the lovebite that Peter’s eyes were stuck to whenever Mr Stark entered the room, the feeling of his shoulders under Peter’s hands, firm and unmoving.

That last memory always elicited such a fast, shooting heat straight to his groin and made Peter’s breath catch. 

And the thing is, Peter knows what it means. He knows what it all means. His heart speeds up whenever Mr Stark brushes past him, he can’t stop staring at his ass whenever he bends over, he watches his throat bob whenever he takes a drink - he wants him. Which should be some kind of huge revelation but it’s laughable. Of course he wants him; he’s Iron Man. The world’s most sought-after bachelor. 

So he carries on like normal, watching him from a distance, just like every other Tony Stark fanatic around the world does. He lets himself feel warm in his presence and feel giddy whenever Mr Stark presses a hand into his shoulder. It’s enough.

Alongside Mr Stark’s silence regarding what had happened that evening, there was also some unspoken pact to not bring it up either, like it never happened. 

Peter was more than happy to abide by it.

-x-

Peter’s panicking. He’s good at panicking, no matter how small the problem is. 

He’d not taken into account how his little crush on Mr Stark would affect how he felt on the battlefield. They’d been fighting some crazy killer robot, created by a Hydra scientist, and they’d had a hold on it. Mr Stark was hunched over in his suit, tapping away at a keyboard inside the Hydra base, attempting to hack into the main systems while Steve and Peter distracted the robot outside. 

They hadn’t accounted for the second one.

But Mr Stark had still done it. Steve had sent his shield soaring through the air, piercing through the robot’s previously-robust armor, and it had collapsed into multiple pieces, fizzling out on the ground in front of them. The feeling of victory had been short when the sound of Mr Stark groaning in pain through the coms sent Steve and Peter into panic-mode.

They’d sprinted into the bunker, finding the pieces of another robot still sizzling with electricity on the floor in front of Mr Stark, who was laid flat on his back, the Iron Man suit dented and burnt.

Fast forward to now, when Peter has Mr Stark’s armored arm around his shoulder, tugging him towards the descending quinjet. 

“I’m telling you, I’m fine,” Mr Stark grunts, tapping the middle of his chestpiece. The suit fades away and the immediate lightness almost makes Peter stumble over the edge of the ramp. He lets go of Tony’s arm for a brief moment to press his own chestpiece, retracting his armor too. 

“Then what’s that?” Peter swirls a finger around Tony’s ribcage, where there’s a dark stain blooming through his undersuit. Mr Stark looks down, wincing.

“A scratch.”

“Mhm,” Peter hums, not believing him for a minute. He places Mr Stark on the first chair they come across, Steve walking past them to get the quinjet engines started and ready to go. 

“We’ll be back at the tower in fifteen, try and stitch him up for now,” Steve says, chucking a medkit at Peter, before settling into the pilots chair at the front of the plane. Peter catches it flawlessly, perching on a small stool in front of Tony. Tony’s tilting his head back, not looking particularly fazed about the slice across his ribcage.

Peter tries to keep himself calm, focusing on the fact he was tending to an injury, but he can’t stop his eyes darting up to Tony’s face nervously, hands grasping some antiseptic wipes and bandage. His gaze falls to the undersuit, swallowing. 

“I-I need you to…” Peter jerks his head into Tony’s direction, hoping to _god_ Mr Stark understood what he was trying to say, while trying so hard not to blush. He can see Tony’s gaze fall onto him out of the corner of his eye and absolutely refuses to look up.

“Do what?” And damn if Peter can’t hear the amusement in his tone. 

“T-Take it off,” Peter nods his head towards the upper half of the undersuit again, still holding his gaze steadily on a point above Tony’s shoulder. Mr Stark raises his arms to undo the zip at the base of his neck and lets out a hiss. He drops his arms back to his side.

“Can’t. You do it.”

Peter’s eyes snap to Tony’s, whose head is tilted back against the wall again, eyes half-lidded as he looks down at Peter. Peter’s mouth is dry, hands frozen in midair. He nods stiffly.

“Right, okay.” He puts down the items in his hands shakily and stands to his feet. Tony’s still staring at him. “Lean forwards.”

It seems to take him a lot more effort than it should, leaning forwards, and Peter feels a flash of guilt at how he’s standing there, blood pumping faster through his veins, when Mr Stark’s obviously in pain. But he can’t help it - especially not when Mr Stark parts his knees to allow Peter to get closer.

He closes his eyes, takes in a few deep breaths to calm himself, and steps between them. The top of Mr Stark’s hair tickles at Peter’s chin and it feels like the gaze he puts on Peter is _burning_ him.

His hands tremble as he lifts them to the back of Tony’s neck, tucking one thumb underneath the material and holding the other side with his index finger, to keep it still. Peter can feel his breath coming out quicker, the feeling of Mr Stark’s bare skin against his thumb doing things to his body he tries hard not to think about.

The sound of the zipper in the heavy silence is strangely erotic, even more so when Mr Stark’s breath hitches, sending a puff of warm air into the material on Peter’s chest. There was no reason for this moment to be so _charged_ , the air full of tension so heavy it crushes Peter’s shoulders. It had to be one-sided, it had to be Peter letting his imagination run wild.

When the zipper is down, Peter holds his breath, leaning back to grab the collar of the suit and helping Tony lift one arm after the other out of the sleeves. 

_Fuck,_ it doesn’t help that Tony won’t stop staring at him. 

Peter retreats and sits back down on the stool, openly watching as Mr Stark pulls the suit the rest of the way down, revealing his stocky, muscled build and so much more skin than Peter thought he’d ever see. He lets his eyes roam over his body, the stiffening nipples, the mottled scar down the center of his chest, the deep cut on his ribcage. It feels like a strip tease, Mr Stark’s gaze holding steady on Peter’s face while Peter takes in everything, his fingers itching to reach out and touch, his mouth aching to _kiss_ –

A pair of fingers clicking in front of his face brings his attention back to the man in front of him, who’s smirking. _Shit_. Ignoring the redness rushing to his face, he picks up the antiseptic wipes next to him and rips off the top with his teeth, keeping his eyes firmly on the wound. _Injured, in pain, focus on that Peter, focus on that._

He keeps the rest of his body as far away as he can so nowhere else touched Mr Stark except the wet wipe. It’s a difficult position, but it’ll have to do, because Peter really doesn’t trust himself to move any–

The stool he’s sitting on is suddenly dragged along the metal floor with a screech, closer to Mr Stark, and Peter’s hands shoot out for purchase to stop his impending fall. He drops the wet wipe and his hands clamp over Mr Stark’s thighs.

“Better?” Mr Stark asks quietly, unhooking his foot from behind the leg of the stool and reaching over to pluck another packet out of the medikit. Peter’s staring at his own hands in horror, pressed into the skin-tight material spread across the thighs underneath them, the warmth of Mr Stark’s skin oozing through it and making his palms tingle. He pulls them away quickly, grimacing. His eyes dart up to Mr Stark’s. He doesn’t seem bothered by the accidental groping, but he’s watching Peter carefully, scanning his face. 

It’s too much to look at, so Peter rips open the packet and goes back to wiping the wound, significantly closer than he had been before. He can feel the heat coming off of the body in front of him, his face inches away from Tony’s skin. He rearranges his mind, shoves all of the thoughts of pushing the stool away and climbing into Tony’s lap to the back of his head. He grabs a needle and thread and starts on stitching up the cut, getting distracted by the way Mr Stark’s stomach twitches every time he sucks in a hiss of pain. _  
_

_God, what he’d do to lick a wet stripe up it._

When he’s finished, he lets out a sigh of relief, finally pulling his fingers away from Mr Stark, the cold air of the quinjet flowing back between them, evaporating the heat their bodies had created. As he’s packing away the bandages, a hand shoots out and grabs his wrist.

“Do you mind?” Mr Stark says, and Peter looks up at him in confusion. Mr Stark points to a clotting cut on his bottom lip and Peter wants to die. He actually wants to die, because there’s no way Mr Stark can ask him to get close to his mouth and _not_ kiss him. 

He’s already half-hard from being so close to his bare chest, let alone his _mouth_.

But the masochistic side of him wants to do it. Touch Mr Stark’s lips, stand in between those legs and take as long as he needs to, wipe away every inch of blood and hold Mr Stark’s face in his–

So he does. He clenches his teeth, gives Mr Stark a sharp nod, then grabs another antiseptic wipe. Steps in between the legs that Mr Stark parts so easily. Presses a finger under Mr Stark’s chin to tilt his head up, watching the older man’s eyes open wider, surprised at his boldness. Peter’s lost. He’s completely lost, standing this close, Mr Stark seemingly obeying every little thing he hints for him to do. 

He almost feels like he’s hyperventilating, breaths coming out in short puffs across Mr Stark’s face. He removes his finger from under Mr Stark’s chin to entwine his hand in the hair at the back of his head and when Mr Stark breathes in and his pupils dilate, Peter _sees_ it. He uses the grip in his hair to hold his head still, wiping at his lip gently with the wet wipe in his other hand, but he doesn’t take his eyes away from Tony’s, both of them taking each other in greedily. He tugs at the strands gently, still dabbing at Tony’s lip even after the blood has been wiped off, and watches Mr Stark’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, watches his throat bob when he swallows. 

He’s had enough. Peter chucks the wipe away and steps in closer, pulling the hair at the back of Tony’s head to force his face upwards further.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Tony grits out, but it’s a good sound, one that sends a jolt straight to Peter’s dick. 

“What are you doing, Mr Stark?” Peter whispers, bringing his other hand up to the side of Mr Stark’s neck and pressing their foreheads together, heart thumping almost painfully against his chest. 

“Don’t know, kid,” Tony croaks back. He pushes his face closer to Peter’s and their mouths dance close to each other but don’t quite touch, like opposing magnets. _Fuck, fuck_ , Peter wants to dive in, but he’s scared, he’s so scared his legs are trembling and his entire body feels like it’s on fire. He needs it though, he needs this, he wants the ache between his legs to be eased, he wants this twitch in his lips to stop, so he pulls once more on Tony’s hair, relishing in his gasp, and then he moves forwards and his top lip brushes against Tony’s and then–

“We’ll be landing in five minutes. He all stitched up?” Steve shouts from the front of the jet. Peter springs apart from Tony, tripping over the stool backwards and landing on the floor with a crash. He catches himself with his arms and props himself up on them, knees bent and legs parted, staring at Tony like a scared cat.

But Tony’s still poised, half off the seat, and his eyes are settled on Peter’s groin, where his erection is pushing against the stretchy fabric, obvious through the undersuit. He licks his lips and Peter has to bite his tongue and close his eyes because seeing _that_ is not helping the situation.

“Yep!” Peter shouts back to Steve, voice strangled, before slowly standing to his feet. He straightens himself and turns and just walks away from Mr Stark, his pulse running wild and his head a jumble of mixed, torturous thoughts.

He’d spent the last few weeks pining after Tony, daydreaming and fantasizing, because that was all he thought he was allowed to do. But Mr Stark’s face kept popping up in the front of his mind, mouth open, pupils black, hair tousled, looking _hungry_.

Perhaps it isn’t as one-sided as he thought.

-x-

Peter doesn’t see Tony for a few weeks.

The missions they’re on keep them apart, always teamed up with the other Avengers. Whether or not it’s been twisted by Tony’s hand, Peter doesn’t know. He’s thankful though; after the incident on the quinjet, he’s in a constant state of nervousness when he’s hanging in the Avengers Tower, his stomach curdling whenever a door opened and someone entered.

When they do finally see each other again, it’s in the lab. Peter walks in with Bruce, deep in discussion about his recent attempt to integrate the Hulk with himself, and they’re mid-conversation when Peter’s eyes fall on the person across the room who’s staring deep holes into the side of his head.

His chest tightens, breathing stops, legs go weak. Mr Stark’s hands are hovering over an arc reactor, tools gripped between his fingers, but they’ve stopped moving, his eyes frozen on Peter. Everything else in the room fades out, a loud humming ringing in Peter’s ears, and he can only stare back, his entire body alight.

“Peter? Peter?” A voice cuts through the white noise and it takes a few seconds for Peter to acknowledge it. He jerks his head to the side, surprised to see Bruce standing next to him, before he remembers what had been happening before he’d seen Mr Stark.

“Y-Yeah? Yeah, sorry.” Peter clears his throat when his voice comes out in a croak. Ignoring the confused glances Bruce throws between him and Mr Stark, he makes his way over to his station, throwing his backpack onto the top of the counter. He can still feel Mr Stark’s eyes on the back of his head and it stills him for a second. He stares at the counter and closes his eyes slowly, breathing out carefully. 

Maybe it was a good thing they hadn’t been teamed up lately.

“Tony? Tony. Oh, for God’s sake,” Peter hears Bruce say behind him and Peter can’t help but throw a curious glance over to Mr Stark. He’s still staring at him like he’s made out of diamond, ignoring Bruce. “Alright, fine, I’ll leave you two to it.” 

Having caught Tony’s gaze again, Peter doesn’t even notice Bruce leaving.

The air in the lab thickens and it’s an embarrassingly long time before Peter can bring himself to use his voice.

“Long time no see,” He says, impressed at the casual tone he’d forced. He’d half-expected it to come out as a squeak. This breaks Tony out of his weird, heated trance and he lets out a choked cough, casting his eyes downwards to the arc reactor in front of him.

“Yeah, good to see you, kid.” 

Peter starts to pull out a few textbooks and his project for his robotics college class, cheeks flushing at the mere sound of Mr Stark’s voice. Damn, he had it _bad._

He wants to say something else, make Mr Stark talk to him, bring back that rapport they used to have, but the idea sends fire through his nerves. So he sits down and gets to work, trying hard to ignore Mr Stark’s eyes on his back.

-x-

When Peter lifts his head up from the machine in front of him, his neck clicks and his spine aches in protest. He blinks away the dryness in his eyes, stretches out the stiffness in his fingers, and looks up at the clock on the wall.

 _2:00am._ Five hours has passed.

He curses himself for falling into ‘The Zone’ again and stands up, pushing the stool behind him with a screech. It echoes loudly in the darkened lab and Peter looks around, rolling his shoulders. He didn’t know when he’d forgotten that Tony was in the room with him, but the stool Mr Stark had been sitting on was empty now, so he must have left long ago.

With a sigh of disappointment, he gathers up everything on his counter and pushes it into his backpack. It’d probably be another few weeks before he’d see Mr Stark again and despite his crippling nervousness at seeing him, he’d soaked in every minute.

He walks towards the door to the lab and presses the button. The door opens with a hiss, but as he’s about to leave, his ears pick up the sound of a small whimper.

Confused, he turns around, eyes scanning the lab again. Most of it is cast in shadow. He waits and sure enough, the sound pierces his ears again.

He walks back in, throwing his backpack on the floor, and keeps searching the darkness. That’s when he spots a moving lump on the sofa in the corner. The door closes quietly behind him as he steps closer and closer, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. Even in the dark, Mr Stark’s features are easily distinguishable. He’s asleep, one arm hooked around the back of his head and the other hanging limply off of the edge of the couch. 

Peter swallows and leans over to tap a nearby lamp and it casts a warm, dim light over Mr Stark. It’s too good of an opportunity to pass up and Peter takes his entire form in hungrily. His Iron Maiden t-shirt has ridden up slightly, showing a patch of smooth skin and his sweatpants have twisted in his sleep, pulling down on the left side a little too far, showing the crease between the top of his thigh and his groin and _fuck_ Peter’s mouth goes dry and he can’t take his eyes away from it.

Then Tony whimpers again, forehead creased, hands tightening into fists. _A nightmare?_

Peter shakes himself and moves quickly to wake him up. But his coordination has other plans - one foot gets in the way of the other and then Peter’s toppling forwards. His knees fall either side of Mr Stark’s hips and his forearms crash against the arm of the couch that Tony’s head is resting against.

Peter doesn’t want to open his eyes. He can feel the breath on his face and he knows if he opens them, he’ll see Mr Stark’s staring back at him. Then Tony whimpers again and Peter’s eyes fly open in shock.

He’s still asleep.

How he’d managed to stay asleep after being jostled, Peter doesn’t know. He lets out a sigh of relief and goes to move, but freezes when he feels a warm, firm hand slide across his hip to the small of his back. Then it pushes and Peter’s groin collides with Tony’s and Peter can’t help the gasp that falls from his lips.

_So… Not a bad dream, then._

Tony’s forehead is creased, head tilted back, a slight sheen of sweat across his face. He’s hard and _fuck, fuck,_ he’s grinding into Peter, who’s frozen in place, his cock slowly filling at the contact. _God_ , it feels blissful and Peter gives into it, _just for a moment._ Lets his head fall down onto Tony’s collarbone, whimpering when Tony’s covered erection brushes deliciously against his, chasing the feeling with his own hips, his fingers curling into the arm of the couch.

He needs to get up, he needs to move _now_ and pretend like this never happened, but Tony’s other hand comes up and grabs his ass, squeezing, pushing him down _harder_ , and then faster and faster and shock after shock is spreading from his cock up his spine. 

Tony’s whimpers turn into moans and he turns his head into Peter’s neck, his mouth parting, lips pressing into his neck loosely as he lets out sound after sound. It’s too good, _so so good_ , and Peter’s drunk on it, eyes half-lidded, mind completely focused on the feeling of their covered cocks pressing into each other, each grind sending sparks into the backs of his eyes.

Then Mr Stark is stiffening as he comes, stifling his loud moan into Peter’s neck, legs twitching.

“ _Pete_ ,” Mr Stark hisses through gritted teeth into his neck, and that’s what does it. Peter goes over the edge with a cry, eyes squeezing shut, the intensity of his orgasm making his entire body tremble. 

When he comes back down, he almost lets himself fall limply onto Tony, but he catches himself. And then the reality of the situation hits him. And _then_ he finds himself looking down into a pair of dark eyes.

Peter and Tony stare at each other, both panting, both looking absolutely horrified.

“Oh… oh God, Mr Stark, I’m– I’m so sorry.” Peter scrambles to his feet, grimacing at the feeling in his boxers, and steps backwards, watching as Tony sits up from the sofa, a hand pressed to his head.

“What… what happened?” Mr Stark asks and it’s jarring, hearing him say that, of all people. The one guy who prided himself on knowing everything.

“I–I thought you were having a nightmare and I went to wake you up, but I fell, a-and it turns out it wasn’t a nightmare,” Peter feels so guilty, so shit, “And y-you– we–” Peter closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath, trying to regulate the shame coursing through his system. He opens them again, looks Tony straight in the eye. “It felt too good.” He croaks.

And that’s all it takes for the confusion and horror to fall from Tony’s face. He has that look in his eyes again, the one where he makes Peter feel like he’s about to be _consumed_ , and it’s too much. Peter gulps, feels tears prickling.

“I-I’m really sorry,” Peter says, and then he turns and scurries away, ignoring Mr Stark’s shouts behind him. He picks up his backpack as he passes it, swings it over his shoulder, and runs for his room.

-x-

The next few weeks around the compound leaves Peter feeling strung out and exhausted.

It felt like every time Tony enters the room, every molecule in Peter’s body bursts into flames. He’s hyper-focused on everything; Tony’s breathing, his movements, his voice. Each sound sends a new wave of fire coursing through his body and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t tear his eyes away from his mentor.

In a room full of superheroes with the ability to catch onto microexpressions, Peter could’ve stood on the nearest table and screamed about the situation and it’d be less obvious.

But if anyone notices, they say nothing. Mr Stark says nothing – in fact, not only does he say nothing, he refuses to acknowledge Peter’s presence all together. No greeting, no friendly pat on the back, no smiles. Just glances that seem to stick just a little too long. And the really, really sick thing is that it just makes Peter want _more_.

They’re all spread across the lounge, drinks in their hands, a gentle hum of music playing in the background. It’s a rare day where no one was on any life-threatening missions, no one was brooding. Despite Peter’s awareness of Tony throughout the whole night, he felt comfortable. At home. With family.

Peter watches as Tony spreads an arm across the back of the sofa, his forearm brushing against Steve’s shoulders as he lets out a laugh. His legs stretch out in front of him, jeans pulling tight across his thighs. Peter’s mouth goes dry and he chugs back the rest of his beer, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth to catch the rogue drops. This action brings Tony’s attention to him and even though he’s nodding in agreement to something Steve says, his eyes are trailing across Peter’s body.

 _God_ , Peter curses inwardly and his body moves on its own accord, legs spreading, head tilting back, mouth parting. Mr Stark’s eyes darken and whatever Steve’s saying is forgotten. The sounds in the room around them fade out, replaced with a buzzing in Peter’s head, the room blurring around everything but _Tony_.

A hand on his shoulder jerks him out of his stupor and he immediately straightens up, splashing a small drop of beer onto his leg in the process. He looks up at Nat, who’s watching him carefully, head tilted to the side. Instead of acknowledging her, he glances back over to Mr Stark, who’s gone back to talking to Steve like nothing had happened.

“He’s twice your age, you know,” Nat says quietly, propping herself onto the arm of Peter’s chair. Panic shoots through Peter, straight down his spine and then back up again, right into his chest.

“I-I don’t know what you mean,” Peter stammers and even he doesn’t believe his own voice. Nat snorts softly, sipping the martini in her hand.

“Remind me to sign you up for lessons in lying, Parker. Pretty sure it’s superhero 101.”

Peter swallows, a hard lump appearing in his throat. His eyes flicker around the room, making sure everyone is occupied enough to not pay attention to their conversation. He leans closer to her and drops his voice to a whisper.

“Is it that obvious?” 

Nat smiles gently at him, taking a sip of her drink to delay the time before she answers, pondering how to reply. 

“I want to say no, just to save you the crushing embarrassment, but that would be cruel,” She smirks at the look of horror on Peter’s face. She smacks his chest with the back of his hand. “Hey, if it’s any consolation, Tony’s not being as discreet as he thinks he is either.”

Peter’s gaze snaps straight to her, mouth falling open slightly, eyes wide. “What do you mean?”

“Jesus, Parker, you’re supposed to have super-spidey senses. You telling me don’t know bedroom eyes when you see them? I’m perfectly human but even I can pick up on that.” Nat tips back the rest of the martini into her mouth and taps her nails against the empty glass. She’s watching Tony carefully and Peter follows her gaze. He’s still talking to Steve, but sends the occasional suspicious glance their way. “Listen,” Nat says, standing up, “He’s a piece of work. Pepper got out of there before he dragged her under. But this – whatever this is – that you two have going on, you better be sure you know what it is you want, because I’m pretty sure Tony won’t be able to handle having his heart ripped out again.”

And then she leaves, and Peter’s left wondering whether she’d just told him to stay away for his own good, or whether she’d just given her stamp of approval wrapped up in a ‘hurt him and I’ll hurt you’ warning.

-x-

Peter has to get out of there. As the evening goes on, Mr Stark strips one layer off and leaves himself in just a tank and baggy sweatpants that keep sliding down, and Peter can’t take it. He ducks into a nearby storage room, a single dim light sending an orange glow across the wooden shelves stocked with wine, bottles of beer and spirits. He rips off his jumper, leaving him in a too-baggy t-shirt that slips off of his shoulder when he grinds his palms into his eyes.

He can’t take it. He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s never really had strong feelings towards someone, or because of how everything in his body had been amplified after the spider bite, but every little action Tony takes is driving him crazy.

A finger across his lips, a brush of his hand against his own thigh, a flash of a smile, a look through half-lidded eyes, arms stretching above his head and showing a patch of skin just above the waistband of his sweatpants. 

It’s too much and Peter’s groin aches. His chest hurts, his lips are dry and twitching, waiting. 

He’s trying to cool himself, his head pounding and throat scratchy and dry. The alcohol hasn’t helped – it’s sent his body into a hot overdrive, limp and pliant. The cold of his palms against his eyes is soothing and he keeps them there, head tipped back against the wall and chest heaving. He doesn’t even hear the door open over the sounds of his distress.

“Pete?”

His breath catches in his throat and his hands snap back to his side, attempting to right himself. He can’t though; Tony’s here, he’s at the door, in the dark, and Peter breathes in, takes in the lingering smell of alcohol and aftershave coating the air between them. His breathing comes out heavier, his skin prickles down his back, and then Tony’s in front of him, hands grasping his shoulders.

“Snap out of it, hey, Pete, come on.” Tony shakes him gently and it knocks Peter out of his trance just enough. Peter grabs Tony by the arms and flips them round quickly, a small grunt forced out of Tony’s mouth when his back collides with the wall.

Peter dives forwards, pressing his forehead into the side of Tony’s neck. It’s warm, soft, smells _delicious_.

“What—” Mr Stark starts, words trapped in his throat when Peter’s lips press hard against his pulse. Peter can feel the shiver that runs through him. “Pete—”

“Please,” Peter croaks against the skin underneath Mr Stark’s ear. “I—I messed up, I know, back in the lab,” Peter rolls his head onto Tony’s shoulder and brings his hands down from Tony’s shoulders to grasp at his hands. He presses them gently against the wall and feels Tony’s breath hitch. “But I can’t—I want—” Peter moves his head from Mr Stark’s shoulders, cheek brushing against stubble, until their mouths are so close Peter can feel when Tony stops breathing. He brushes their lips together, fingers tightening in their place around Tony’s wrists, still pressing them firmly against the wall. 

“ _Fuck_ , kid, you—” Tony tilts his head back against the wall, breaking their not-kiss, to let out a breath. “You’re really putting me through hell. I’m not really one for self-control, but god—“ He cuts himself off with a groan when Peter leans forwards to bite at his earlobe. There’s a few beats of silence, their heavy breaths creating a muted bubble around them.

“My skin feels like it’s gonna burst whenever you’re in the room,” Peter admits, whispering brokenly into Tony’s neck. “I can’t stop thinking about kissing you, doing… things to you. I don’t know if it’s the spider bite but everything is so _intense_ and it almost hurts, Mr Stark, I just need to…” He trails off to press their foreheads together and neither of them are looking anywhere but each others mouths. It goes quiet and Peter’s scared, he’s absolutely fucking petrified, because he’s going to take the kiss even if Tony doesn’t want it—

But Tony stretches his head forwards and closes the gap between them. He presses his lips hard into Peter’s, forehead creasing, and Peter’s _soaring._

The fire flares up, and everything in Peter’s mind focuses on that one point of contact. They’re still, just their lips pushed together, but then Tony tilts his head to the side, nose nudging across Peter’s, and opens his mouth and Peter loses it.

His hands leave Tony’s wrists to snap to his head, fingers burying themselves into Tony’s hair to deepen the kiss, prising Tony’s lips open with his own and slipping his tongue inside. Tony’s moan reverberates through Peter’s mouth, down to his chest, then to his toes, and then Peter’s being flipped over himself. Tony crowds in closer, pushing him tightly against the wall, hands finding the base of Peter’s neck and the back of his head. Tony’s taking it now, mouth sliding easily across Peter’s, and Peter whimpers, legs going weak. 

They part to take a breath, Tony’s tongue leaving a trail of glistening saliva across Peter’s bottom lip, and they stand in the dim light, panting into each others mouths, hands gripping different parts of their bodies.

“This is a real bad idea,” Mr Stark whispers and the feel of his breath across Peter’s sensitive mouth sends a shiver down his spine. The burning need in Peter has sizzled into a simmer now that he’d felt it, tasted Tony’s lips on his. He brought his hand round from the back of Tony’s head to his cheek, eyes flitting between both of Tony’s. He’d felt it, and he was never going to let it go now.

“Didn’t feel like it,” Peter replies and he grins when Mr Stark lets out a huff of laughter in response. “Besides, I’m pretty sure Miss Romanoff gave us her blessing.”

Mr Stark looks less shocked then he should. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised, subtlety isn’t my strongest suit.” His fingers find the back of Peter’s hair and he tugs a little, eyes darkening when Peter lets out a tiny gasp.

“Or self-restraint, apparently.”

Tony’s eyes dart back down to Peter’s mouth and he leans forwards, closing the distance to press a surprisingly tender kiss to Peter’s mouth. When he pulls away, he’s taking in Peter’s face like it’s the last time he’ll see it.

“If we do this, it’s for the long haul,” Tony whispers, voice trembling slightly. Peter’s heart thuds, hard, at the confession. Peter thinks maybe he should take a second, to think it through, wonder about the future. But he doesn’t. He leans forwards, the space between them shrinking until their lips are pressed together again. _One, two, three kisses._

It’s a promise. 

A knock at the door makes them jump apart, Peter’s heart beating a million miles a second. 

“If you guys don’t mind, I’d rather you took it somewhere away from the beers,” Sam’s voice calls out from the other side of the wood. Heat rushes to Peter’s face and he shares an uneasy smile with Tony, who doesn’t even look embarrassed, more surprised.

“Guess even the dumbasses could see what was going on,” Tony says into the silence, and Peter snorts. Tony reaches down between them and grabs Peter’s hand, firm and warm. Grounding. He reaches across to the shelf and takes down an extra pack of beers. “Definitely leaving here with a lot more than I thought I would.” 

Peter surprises himself – and Tony – when he surges forwards and takes Tony’s lips again, the bottles on the shelf rattling when Tony’s back pushes against it. He takes, and takes, and takes, mouth pulling back and diving back in against Tony’s, hands brushing down Tony’s chest, his arms, his waist, his ass—

Peter pulls back, breathing heavily, and Tony’s staring at him with that same look; the one that makes Peter feel like he’s alight. 

“Sorry, couldn’t help it,” Peter says through panted breaths. Tony laughs and pushes himself up off of the shelf.

“Yeah, we’re gonna need to keep you doing that to a minimum or I’m pretty sure we’ll christen every surface of this tower within a week.”

The implications of that sentence makes Peter flush, but he nods in agreement and takes Tony’s hand, surprised at his own boldness. Tony entwines their fingers together and nods towards the door.

“Best go face the music,” He says, heading towards the door. Peter doesn’t hear it. He’s looking down at their hands, small slender fingers against rough, thick ones, and he feels good. It feels good.

 _Five kisses,_ Peter thinks, staring at Tony’s face as he pulls open the door to the storage room. He trails his eyes down his face, past his stubble, down his neck, his chest, back to their hands. A small smile twitches around his lips.

_And more._


End file.
